


If You Wanna Go To The Seven Heavens (you should fuck me tonight)

by AvaRosier



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9589049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: Sansa only married Jon at her father's behest, for the good of her family and the North. After a month of being holed up in a cabin in the Wolfswood, things between her and Jon are beginning to change.written for the 15 Days of Valentines challenge, day two: cuddling/bed sharing





	

Consider this fic set in the same universe as [& My Fate Is Your Fate](http://ava-rosier.tumblr.com/post/154535907157/my-fate-is-your-fate-a-slip-of-paper)

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa Stark sits at the only table in their small cabin and as she pushes a needle and thread through the torn material of one of her husband’s tunics, she contemplates the most ladylike way to ask him to fuck her.

Her eyes dart over to where Jon- no longer a Snow but something else yet unnamed- stands before the small fireplace, stoking it with an iron poker. He’s been adjusting the wood placement with rather intense concentration for some time now. As if any of this would make a difference. Hope and something else entirely wanton blooms in her.

Her husband of scarcely a moon’s turn is trying to avoid looking at her. She takes it as no insult; after all, she has not been able to meet his eyes all day without blushing. Even now, she would swear her thighs burn with the memory of his beard scraping against the tender flesh as his tongue… _his tongue_ …

Such wicked things he’d done with his mouth and his fingers, bringing her unimaginable joy even before he put his cock to her. Neither her mother nor her septa, or even Aunt Lysa had told her this was possible. Sansa is dearly glad they had not- she thinks the embarrassment would have ruined what now grows naturally between her and Jon.

Their wedding night had been exceedingly awkward: full of dry kisses, fumbling, some tears on her part and lots of apologizing on Jon’s. But they’d gotten on with it and three days later they were on their way into the Wolfswood where Lord Flint was providing them with shelter from potential assassins. The war in the South was going poorly for the Lannisters but that didn’t mean there was no danger to Jon now that the world knew he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen.

Despite sharing a bed every night, Jon has made no move to take his rights, which gratifies her as much as it surprisingly frustrates her. Well, that’s not entirely true. Many a morn she has woken to find they’d both moved towards the center of the bed and curled up, her back to his front. Sometimes her night shift has drifted up over her hips. Sometimes his hand would be on her breast. It’s all she can do on mornings like this to not squirm at the wetness between her thighs, the heaviness of desire, or rub against the hardness she frequently feels against her backside. Sansa has come to enjoy the feeling of his arms around her, the easing of the distance he keeps from her during waking hours, the way his breath skitters over the back of her neck. _If only he would just_ , she would think. _If only he would just press his lips against her neck there and undo his breeches and fill her with his seed_.

But then Jon would awaken and disentangle himself from her and go about his morning routine. There is plenty of work to do during the day, and it feels like they are playing house. Sansa finds she likes it, even if she frequently despairs the absence of luxuries she is used to. The second week had been particularly humiliating because she had received her moonblood and so she had cordoned off a small corner with a hanging curtain, behind which she would dry her rags. She had expressly forbidden Jon from peeking behind the curtain and once he understood why, he had blanched and immediately agreed. (Whether he had agreed out of horror or out of fear that she would start crying again, she was not certain.)

Sometimes they get along pleasantly, sometimes they become cross with one other. Their most explosive argument had been barely a fortnight into their stay here: Jon hated feeling like a burden because of his parentage and the threat it posed to the entire North, Sansa had admitted in the heat of anger that yes, she had wanted to marry into a Great House in the South. The next day had been full of stony silences until Jon had injured himself while chopping wood and Sansa had let go of her pride to cluck around him like a mother hen as she treated his (really very minor) wound.

(She liked the kissing they’d done then much better than their wedding night, sat on Jon’s lap with one of his hands carding through her hair.)

In short, this man is no longer a stranger to her and as such, she thinks she would like it very much if he did more than kiss her and touch her through the layers of her clothing. Last night, there had been something wholly thrilling about seeing her usually quiet and reticent husband behave like a wild wolf intent on devouring her.  Decision made, Sansa puts her mending aside and stands, startling Jon out of his own reverie. He turns to face her, awaiting her word.

“I think I will retire now, my lord, if that is alright with you.”

He nods jerkily, setting the poker aside. “Of course. I should probably join you as well if I’m to go out hunting with Ghost and Lady in the morning.”

She suppresses a sigh at the excuse but nothing can stop her from brimming with excitement as she steps behind her makeshift screen and hurriedly changes out of her simple blue dress and into her night shift. She even removes her smallclothes, biting her lip as she does so at what feels like an illicit act.

Jon awaits with a bare chest and his breeches undone. “After you, my lady,” he tells her, smiling somewhat playfully as he sweeps his arm in the direction of the bed. Sansa pulls the furs back and climbs in. The side that abuts the wall is, by unspoken designation, hers. As she settles beneath the furs, she tries not to stare as Jon hurriedly shucks off his breeches and slips in next to her.

They stare up at the ceiling as shadows play across it, not moving. If only she’d imbibed some wine beforehand, maybe she’d have easier courage. Still, Sansa takes a deep breath and asks, “Jon?”

At his answering “Hm?” she forges ahead. She is a Stark, after all, she can be brave.

“I’m not actually that tired.” She turns her head to meet his eyes and whatever he sees there is enough to convince him. In a flash he is rolling over onto her, bracketing her body with his arms and legs.  She scarcely has time to prepare herself before his lips are covering hers. For once in her life, Sansa doesn’t give a damn about being submissive and ladylike. She meets his kiss with equal fervor, tugging his bottom lip in between hers.

She feels the vibrations of his answering groan and gives herself permission to touch him in a way she hasn’t yet. Jon feels so solid beneath her hands- the broad planes of his back, the play of muscles in his arms as he shifts his weight so that one thigh slips in between hers. She can’t stop herself from rocking against it, feeling the sweet ache grow, and she pulls away from his lips to suck in a great gasp of air and let out a whimper.

Opening her eyes, Sansa sees Jon watching her intently, one thumb stroking along her cheekbone. “I confess I thought of naught but this all day,” he says.

She grins up at him. “Me too.”

This time their kiss is slower, more languorous, and Jon ever so carefully slides his hand down her throat, the rough pads of his fingers leaving shivers of delight in their wake. Finally, he gently cups her breast and all at once Sansa thinks she might combust.

“Jon,” she moans. Her blood runs so hot right now; maybe that’s the Targaryen in her husband setting her aflame.

“Shh, sweet girl. I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, bunching her night shift in hand and rising up onto his knees so he can tug it up over her head. Exposed completely to his gaze, gooseflesh sweeps over her, making her nipples pebble even tighter.

“Do I please you, my lord?”

“Aye, my lady. Completely.” A strange happiness overtakes her then and she does naught to stop Jon as he bends down to capture a nipple in his mouth. The wet heat and the pressure has her moaning and arching her back, hands flying into his loose curls to either keep him there or pull him away. Maybe both. Before she can get used to the sensation, he’s laving her belly and hips with wet kisses, making his way lower and lower and she knows his intended destination.

All thought flies out of her head at the first sweep of his tongue over the petals of her flower. With his arms holding her hips down, Jon is free to torment her for however long he wants. And so he does, sometimes allowing the tip of his tongue to dart over her nub in a faster feather-like motion, sometimes settling into a steady rhythm where he uses the broad base to lick up along her slit. It builds in her like a wave, until she’s whimpering and begging and trying to buck against him for more.

The wave breaks and as soon as it does, he closes his mouth over her nub and suckles lightly but insistently. Sansa thinks she may have become a wild thing herself, scratching at his arms and his hair and straining as the last ripples of her release flood into her limbs. She’s certainly noisy enough to wake the dead.

“Aye,” she hears him mutter half to himself as she lies there in a daze. “I dreamed of tasting your cunt again.” She feels herself twitch from his words alone, drawing a chuckle from Jon as he dots her torso with rougher kisses, beard abrading her skin as he crawls back up her body. Enough of her wits have returned by the time Jon shucks his smallclothes and so Sansa gets an eyeful of the very organ that remains mostly a mystery to her.  It’s rather hard and protrudes straight out from his body and she is wonders if it’s that way all the time.

He doesn’t give her time to do more than stroke the shaft before he’s lifting one of her legs and bracing it against his shoulder, pressing the tip against her flower, so wet and ready for him.  Her hand finds his- the burnt one- and they link their fingers together against her lower belly as he begins to slowly sink into her. The stretch is much more pleasant this time, with hardly any soreness and Sansa finds herself humming happily, using the leverage of Jon’s shoulder to raise her hips as he sheathes himself entirely.

“ _Oh_ ,” she lets out an exhalation of surprise. He stills, breathing shallowly.

“Was that a good or bad ‘oh’?”

“Good I should say, if you can do that again.”

Jon looks rather boyish when his entire face lights up with a grin. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She ends up with her bottom raised up onto his thighs, and when his hips begin to snap against hers, she thinks she sees the stars behind her eyelids. Distantly, she is aware that she is making entirely undignified noises but that is alright- so is Jon. His body is straining with effort and once he presses a thumb against her sensitized nub, every one of those stars burst.  Sansa marvels at the sensation of her cunny gripping and fluttering around Jon as her peak rolls through her, making her belly and thighs shake from the intensity.

Based on the shout above her, Jon has reached his own completion, nearly bending her in half as he does so. Her husband is beautiful in this moment, she thinks to herself, running her hands lightly over his arms. Definitely younger and almost vulnerable, shivering as he stills and tries to catch his breath. It’s such an odd realization that the act of bedding is so enjoyable and they could do this practically any time they want.

“Gods, Sansa,” Jon murmurs, dropping her leg back to the bed and moving his eyes from where they are joined up to her face. He doesn’t seem to know what else to say so instead kisses her, hard enough that Sansa shows some teeth.

“My wolf queen,” the endearment rolls off his tongue at the same time he slips from her body and moves onto his side next to her. She turns to face him, tugging the furs back up over their bodies to combat the rapidly cooling air in the cabin. She feels so pleasantly wrung out and yet so exhilarated, especially when she presses her thighs tightly together, imagining that she is holding his seed inside her.

Jon is unexpectedly tender now, dropping butterfly-light kisses along her forehead, her cheek, her nose.  Was this how people fell in love? If it felt like this, she wouldn’t be surprised.

“I’m relieved,” she says without explanation.

“Why?”

Pointing underneath the furs, she tries her hardest not to grin. “I feared that you might be walking around in constant discomfort, hard all the time like you were.”

Jon’s face goes slack with shock for a moment before he scrunches up and sniggers. “Aye, it does that. But not always.”

No more words pass between them, only the quiet crackle of the fire and the creak of the cabin against the outside wind. That and the steadily deepening breaths of the man next to her and the contented beat of her heart as she falls asleep. Not the prince she had dreamed of, no, but a good man she could come to love all the same.


End file.
